


The Infernal Dance

by thesockhop



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Beth Harmon-centric, F/M, Infidelity, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesockhop/pseuds/thesockhop
Summary: “We want you to make contact.”Vasily’s expression is still as the agent continues.“She watches you the most. The US didn’t support her, had her beg friends for money to get here. Our people love her, she speaks Russian.”And hadn’t that been an unpleasant revelation amidst the reporters back in Paris.“I am wed.”He chuckles, “Your methods are your own. If we can turn the white queen red… it sends a powerful message.”
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 36
Kudos: 452





	The Infernal Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Italics denote Russian.

She plays chess through her plane’s departure, until the sun sets and the crisp air becomes chilly. It feels like her Russian has improved more in a single day than a few dozen classes. Beth feels floaty, light in a way she doesn’t associate with being sober. Alexei and Ivan escort her back to the hotel, each talking up their respective grandsons, playfully exaggerating their best qualities for which is more suited to become her husband.

She bids them both goodnight, and walking into the hotel, it is the first time she can truly appreciate the architecture. The high walls feel more reverent than intimidating, the open space freeing. It makes her want to dance, heels tapping all over the polished floor.

“Ms. Harmon!” The manager rushes up to her as she stops in the middle of the lobby. “Excuse me, there have been ah, many calls. You have missed your flight, yes?”

“I wouldn’t say I missed it,” Beth muses. Catching the confusion on his face, she asks, “Could I extend my stay?”

He nods rapidly, “Of course, the champions of chess are always welcomed in these halls. You may stay as long as you wish at no additional fee.”

A laugh bubbles past her lips, “Careful, I may just move in.”

The manager looks almost worried, and she’s about to take it back, chalk it up to a joke lost in translation when he says, “They are all full until next week, but we have grand suites better suited to living long term if you so wish.”

“Oh,” escapes her lips, and eyes wide, it’s possible to imagine never going back.

It reminds her of Mexico City.

Only she can recall Alma’s memory fondly now, without grief overpowering every other emotion. Can think of how much Alma would love this place, would want to go to an art museum or zoo with her. To have fancy lunches in the cool Russian air. Assessing passerby, can hear her giggling aside about how serious and stern and gorgeous the men are.

She bets a Russian martini would give a gimlet a run for its money.

The bar is only five, four, three paces away.

Beth goes straight up to her room, collapses against the elevator’s back in relief.

-

She wires Jolene her money back plus an extra thousand. There isn’t a number she can put on sobriety, long may it last, nor on leaving family behind. It’s easier than trying to write or say her feelings, all tangled up inside her. Gratitude’s the only easy one to detangle, and she basks in it.

-

Beth takes Dima’s bishop, six from check, with a smile. Her days have become a contorted blend of playing Mr. Shaibel and Benny, workmanlike chess indeed. The tables have gone quiet, a peculiar pause in the usual gentle melody of pieces moving across so many boards. She looks up to see Borgov beside their table, looking oddly out of place. Odder still that she didn’t recognize his presence, is used to spotting him first.

She blinks up at him, curious as Dima sighs, has realized he’s trapped.

“Miss Harmon,” he starts, words slow and careful in English. “Would you do the honor of accompanying me to dinner this evening?”

“Yes.” The answer passes before she’s thought on it, doesn’t displease her.

“I will send a car at half past seven.”

He’s gone, noise picking up once more, and Dima has given up on finding an escape, shaking her hand. She wonders if Luchenko took Borgov out to dinner after his loss.

It fits, and she rather likes the idea of dinners in the aftermath. Will one day offer to whoever dethrones her, Girev perhaps.

-

“How long do you stay?”

Beth sips the salty mineral water, “I already missed my flight home. Whenever my visa expires I suppose.”

Borgov raises an eyebrow, “You are the world champion of chess.” Her cheeks warm at the blunt declaration, as he continues, “Your visa will extend. Or, they would grant you citizenship.”

She swallows, the counterbalance lighter than it should be, she speaks it anyways, “I would lose my house.”

There would be no returning to the US after that. A finger on her pawn, and it must move forward.

Borgov’s expression doesn’t change, “You do not need to know now. Have you seen the ballet?”

She shakes her head, a curl falling forwards.

“Tomorrow night. I’ll take you to see The Firebird.”

Beth nods, sipping her stew. “Tell me about your family.”

And she learns all about his son Nikolai, of how he fares in school and his aspirations to be a professional football player one day.

Borgov too once played, though she can’t imagine him running up and down a field, chasing after a ball. Nor standing in the goal, eyes steely.

Can’t imagine him wearing anything besides a suit, blood rushing to her cheeks as she tries.

Borgov doesn’t mention his wife once.

(A better woman wouldn't notice. Wouldn't cling to the absence.)

-

She’s enjoying her morning coffee in the lounge when Georgi finds her, a board under his arm.

“Would you like to play?”

“ _Only if I can also practice my Russian,”_ she answers with a teasing smile.

“Da,” he says, setting up the board.

They decide to play speed chess as Georgi can only stay an hour, and they amass a small crowd as the games go on.

By chance, she looks up at the big grandfather clock as it strikes ten, has the unnerving thought that in a mere eight hours she’ll be sitting with Borgov at the ballet. She moves her bishop wrong, and Georgi’s eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit before he brings his knight out.

It’s a brutal round, ending in a draw with a handful of pawns in locked positions.

“ _What happened_?” Georgi asks as they reset the board, and she exhales an almost laugh.

“ _I was thinking of drive-ins. Have you gone yet?”_

His eyes light up as he tells her all about the Western he saw in a sedan. Three more boards have been set up as they’ve been playing, those games running at regular speed.

“ _I must go now. Again sometime?_ ”

She nods, “ _You’ve improved much._ ”

Georgi’s smile is constrained, reminds her of herself at a younger age.

“ _You’ll get there_ ,” she declares as they part ways.

-

Beth goes through all of her dresses and none of them seem right for the evening. She wants something new, classic and bold.

One very helpful porter later, and she finds herself in a high-end dress shop.

“Ms. Harmon, how may I assist you?”

“ _I need a dress for the ballet. Black I imagine_.”

In short order, she is ushered to a changing room with three dresses. The first is a deep purple, nearly black, and absolutely gorgeous. It also dips down, almost to her bellybutton, with flowing skirts and sleeves of chiffon. The idea of wearing it to meet Borgov – it’s too much. She tries the next on, a smooth black velvet. It clings from her neck to her ankles, covering all but her hands and face. Yet for all it covers, it feels just as daring as the last, clearly silhouetting her figure. But it has a false modesty that she could wear to the ballet, doesn’t bother looking at the last dress.

Beth walks out of the room, in part to check that the dress doesn’t hamper her walking.

“ _This one please_.”

-

She eats lunch at a nearby café, takes a long bath once she’s back. She sorts through her things, dancing to the radio. The day passes quickly, a squirming in her stomach that only intensifies the later it gets.

At three-quarters past five, Beth dresses in the black velvet, touches up her makeup one last time. Her skin is luminescent, the red of her hair and lips stark. She catches her reflection in the elevator doors as they close and wonders for the briefest of moments- No. Better not to think like that at all.

The same car as before is idling outside the hotel, the driver opening the door for her. Once again, only Borgov is in the car. She bites her tongue before she can ask, greeting him.

Perhaps his wife doesn’t like the ballet.

(Borgov may say nothing about the dress, but his eyes linger more than they tend to.)

-

It’s absolutely beautiful. Even with her mind divided, half on the dancers, half on the magnetized space between them, The Firebird is a marvel. The dancers speed up as the Firebird bewitches them, dancing quicker than ever but no less elaborate, and the back of Borgov’s knuckles brush against her fingers.

Breath caught in her chest, Beth can’t look away from the stage. Can no longer see it clearly, only a flurry of blurred motion as her hand tingles. Is perfectly still, as though it might entreat him to repeat the move.

She wants to feel him again, wants to –

Applause erupts over the audience, and Beth jumps to her feet, clapping.

-

The car ride back to the hotel is silent. Her mind is spinning through possibilities like chess moves, trying to find the right combination for her desired outcome.

He walks her into the hotel, hesitating in the entryway.

On a whim, she asks, “ _Care to play a game_?”

His eyes bore down into hers, “ _I don’t_ _carry_ _a board_.”

The hotel must. Could easily have one brought to them at the lobby or lounge, or hell, even the bar. He must know this too.

“ _My room has one_.”

He nods once, following her.

The walk is too quiet, juxtaposed with her heels clicking on the marble floor. She can’t discern if it’s an awkward silence or full of tension. Can’t help but compare it to when she followed Townes up to his room. Only Townes wasn’t like that and Borgov, fuck, Borgov is married.

Her room has been cleaned thankfully, no random bits of clothes hanging about. There’s a board set up between two armchairs, and Borgov seats himself.

For the first time, she isn’t afraid or worried to be playing him. Is genuinely excited.

-

She beats Borgov playing black, and he tells her to call him Vasily.

“ _King_?” she offers with an impish smile, knowledge gained not from the language but one of the books or articles she read about him. Is now tickled rather than demoralized by it. “ _Then you call me Liza_.”

It’s easier to be Liza than Beth or Ms. Harmon. Liza isn’t weighed down by demons or the past, a shallow, happy refraction of herself. Someone that isn’t overly tempted to drink, someone that is content to be in the serenity of chess everlasting. The new Russian celebrity, beloved and wanted.

Liza wants to live.

“ _Liza_ ,” he pronounces, kissing her hand.


End file.
